Читать книгу Marley: A Dog Like No Other - John Grogan - Страница 8
ОглавлениеMarley was growing up fast. When he was small, his skin was so droopy that he looked like he was wearing an oversized yellow fur coat. By the time he was five months old, his body had filled out the wrinkles. His giant puppy paws no longer looked like canine clown feet. His needle-sharp baby teeth had turned into fangs that could destroy a Frisbee in a few quick chomps. His high bark had deepened to a scary boom. When he stood on his hind legs, he could rest his paws on my shoulders and look me straight in the eye.
The first time the vet saw him, he let out a soft whistle and said, “You’re going to have a big boy on your hands.”
And we did.
We were not the only ones to notice. Our front door had a small oblong window at eye level. Marley lived for company. Whenever someone rang the bell, he would streak across the house. Then he’d go into a full skid as he approached the foyer. Sliding across the wood floors and tossing up throw rugs along the way, he didn’t stop until he crashed into the door with a loud thud. At the door, he’d hop up on his hind legs and yelp wildly. His big head filled the tiny window as he stared straight into the face of whoever was on the other side. Terrified strangers ran from “the beast”. They raced to the middle of the driveway and waited for someone to answer the door.
After breakfast one morning, Jenny and I decided to walk Marley down to the water for a swim. When we reached the little beach, I wagged a stick in front of Marley’s face and took off his leash. He stared at the stick as if he were a starving man staring at a loaf of bread. His eyes never left the prize.
“Go get it!” I shouted, and hurled the stick as far out into the water as I could. He galloped down the beach. As he entered the shallow water, plumes of spray shot up around him. This is what Labrador retrievers are born to do. It is in their genes.
Labs are known for their desire to fetch. People bred these water dogs to help hunt birds. Once a bird was shot, the dogs would race to get it. Sometimes that meant leaping into ice-cold water to get the dead animal and bring it back to the hunter. These loyal friends never expected a reward for their hard work.
Marley had inherited at least half of the instinct. He was a master at chasing his prey. He didn’t quite get that he was supposed to return it. He might as well have said, “If you want the stick back that bad, you jump in the water for it.”
Marley charged back up on to the beach with his prize in his teeth.
“Bring it here!” I yelled, slapping my hands together. “C’mon, boy, give it to me!” He pranced over, his whole body wagging with excitement, and shaking water and sand all over me.
To my surprise, Marley dropped the stick at my feet. Wow, I thought. How’s that for service? But when I reached down to pick up the stick, Marley was ready. He dove in, grabbed it, and raced across the beach in crazy figure eights. He swerved back, nearly colliding with me, taunting me to chase him. I made a few lunges at him, but he was too fast and agile.
“You’re supposed to be a Labrador retriever!” I shouted. “Not a Labrador evader!”
Maybe Marley had strength, but I had brains. I grabbed a second stick and made a big deal about it. I held it over my head and tossed it from hand to hand. I swung it from side to side. He crept closer until he was just inches in front of me. I rubbed the stick across his snout and watched as he went cross-eyed trying to keep it in his sights.
The little cogs turned in his head. He tried to figure out how he could grab the new stick without giving up the old one. His upper lip quivered.
“I wonder if I could make a quick two-for-one grab,” he seemed to be asking himself. Soon I had my free hand firmly around the end of the stick in his mouth. I tugged and he tugged back, growling.
I pressed the second stick against his nostrils. “You know you want it,” I whispered. And did he ever. The temptation was too much to bear. I could feel his grip loosening. And then he made his move. He opened his jaws to try to grab the second stick without losing the first. In a heartbeat, I whipped both sticks high above my head. He leaped in the air, barking and spinning, obviously at a loss to how such a carefully laid battle plan could have gone so wrong.
“This is why I am the master and you are the beast,” I told him.
In response, Marley shook water and sand in my face.
I threw one of the sticks out into the water and he raced after it, yelping madly as he went. When he returned he was a new, wiser opponent. This time he was cautious and refused to come anywhere near me. He stood about ten metres away, stick in mouth, eyeing the new object of his desire. It just happened to be the old object of his desire, his first stick. Now it was perched high above my head. I could see the cogs moving again. He was thinking, “This time I’ll just wait right here until he throws it, then he’ll have no sticks and I’ll have both sticks.”
“You think I’m really dumb, don’t you, dog?” I said. I heaved back and hurled the stick with all my might. Marley roared into the water with his stick still locked in his teeth. The only thing was, I hadn’t let go of mine. Do you think Marley figured that out? He swam halfway across the water before catching on that the stick was still in my hand.
“You’re cruel!” Jenny yelled down from her bench, laughing.
When Marley finally got back onshore, he plopped down in the sand. Although he was exhausted, he was not about to give up his stick. I showed him mine and reminded him how much better it was than his.
“Drop it!” I ordered. I cocked my arm back as if to throw. The dumb dog bolted back to his feet and began heading for the water again. “Drop it!” I repeated when he returned. It took several tries, but finally he did just that. And the instant his stick hit the sand, I launched mine into the air for him. We did it over and over, and each time he seemed to understand a little more clearly. Slowly the lesson was sinking into that thick skull of his. If he returned his stick to me, I would throw a new one for him.
“You’ve got to give to get,” I told him. He leaped up and gave me a sloppy, sandy kiss. I guess that meant he’d learned his lesson.
As Jenny and I walked home, the tuckered Marley for once did not strain against his leash. “You know,” I said to Jenny, “I really think he’s starting to get it.”
Jenny looked down at him plodding along beside us. He was soaking wet and coated in sand, spittle foaming on his lips. He clenched his prize stick in his jaws.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she said.
